


O Night Divine

by laurel_whoisaghost



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Blizzards & Snowstorms, Blow Jobs, Broken Bucky, Christmas, Deep Throating, Homelessness, Hydra, Lost and Found, M/M, PTSD, Pining, Recovery, Religious Imagery, Religious Themes, Stubborn Steve, WWII, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 20:36:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9089770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurel_whoisaghost/pseuds/laurel_whoisaghost
Summary: After Steve reveals something to Bucky, Bucky runs out into the frigid Christmas Eve night, unable to cope. Terrified for his friend's safety in the worsening weather, Steve takes it upon himself to scour the dark streets of New York to find him. Along the way, Steve meets a man desperately in need of some help, nearly loses his faith, and stumbles through memories bright with both the Christmas spirit of innocent children and the deep pain of loss. It quickly becomes clear that the journey through the snow covered streets of Brooklyn mean more to Steve, his faith, and his love than he had originally bargained for.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I had hoped to post this on Christmas Eve, but figured that it would be nice to post it a few days after to keep the Christmas spirit strong until the new year. I apologize for the spacing, but I'm so not going to go through 36 pages of single spaced text to take out the extra lines. Please enjoy anyway!

“Steve, it’s almost midnight. Please, just drop this for tonight. We’ll start looking again in the morning.”

 

Sam Wilson looked imploringly at his friend from behind his scarf, his thick jacket speckled with melting snow as the heaters blew a roar of hot air over them. Steve squinted out the window of the slowly moving vehicle, watching the heavy flurry of white flakes blow in the hard wind and quickly blanket the sidewalks and street before them, impeding their search. He sighed, rubbing his eyes as the New York cityscape began to blend together in a haze of white.

 

“I’m sorry, Sam. I know, it’s Christmas Eve. I’ve already had you out too late in this mess. I just didn’t know who else to ask. Bucky trusts you, and so do I. I thought that maybe with both of us on the lookout we’d stand a better chance of getting through to him.”

 

Sam shook his head and carefully steered the car around a slick corner. The holiday had dawned cold and gray, the snow beginning its accumulation that afternoon without any sign of stopping. Strong, gusting wind added to the mix, but the surprise blizzard wasn’t the day’s only hang up.

 

“And what exactly happened again? I might be able to get a clue of where he went from what he said.”

 

Steve tore his eyes away from the streets and alleys to recount the morning’s events one more time.

 

“He…he didn’t really say anything. He was already gone when I woke up, and his phone’s been off all day. I got a single message—‘don’t follow me,’ it said.”

 

“And that’s all? Anything that might have led up to this? You two have gotten pretty cozy in the tower—he hasn’t had any more dissociative moments? Could that be what this is? He hasn’t tried to hurt you recently, has he?”

 

Steve grimaced, remembering a particularly trying night during Bucky’s convalescence after the weeks of court trials surrounding the Vienna bombing. He’d slept fitfully, if at all, for more days than Steve cared to think about, and a carelessly lain hand during one of Bucky’s frequent nightmares had nearly been amputated in the Winter Soldier’s mechanical grasp. He’d ended up on his back, pinned beneath Bucky’s weight as the man protected himself from the perceived threat, hands wrapped around Steve’s throat. JARVIS had alerted Tony and Natasha, who had stormed into the apartment in a hiss of high-tech doors and locks, disabling Bucky’s grasp with a jolt of electricity and tackling him away from the captain. Bucky had taken hours to come around, and when he had, he’d spoken halting Russian in sentences only intelligible to Natasha for the rest of the day. The following night he’d paced the floor, checking the perimeter on silent bare feet.

 

It had been a difficult few months. Nightmares plagued both men, though only Bucky failed to see the progress he’d made in the short amount of time. The man trained until he dropped, then pulled himself up and did it all over again. Every morning he rose and attended the therapy sessions mandated by the courts that would assist him with purging some of the damage done to him in his captivity, returning to the apartment with a new cognitive behavioral activity to try, which often left him in sullen moods that lasted until his evening training, at which point he beat his feelings into the punching bag or his sparring partner.

 

The first activity had been speaking more often. Bucky preferred the quiet, often unnerved by colleagues like Stark, who filled every spare moment with talking, sound, and boundless, at times destructive, energy. Natasha was of little help, herself a quiet study, and Bucky had no interest in Wanda and Vision’s company, severely mistrusting of their abilities to potentially alter his mind. Clint was frequently away, and this left Bucky and Steve to work toward a slow repair of a friendship that had rekindled as suddenly as it had been severed all those decades ago.

 

They played board games at first, picking through Bucky’s scant memories of the years before the ice, laughing some moments and frowning deeply at others. Steve awkwardly contained his excitement, wanting nothing more than to show his friend the fantastic new inventions that Stark filled the tower with—robots and JARVIS and high-definition television screens that broadcast in every color, language, size, and shape that one could want their programming in. Their conversations were strained, however. With Bucky’s limited memory of their childhood, it felt wrong to press feelings he’d tried to abandon decades before—manipulative—and though his desire for more than friendship had burned hot from the moment Bucky had remembered who he was, Steve had kept them under a tight wrap, just as he had nearly a century ago. Life quickly became complicated. It felt like a lie, and both men suffered for it.

 

Each night, Bucky plied him with questions he was only half qualified to answer. How did the war end, was their apartment still on that block in Brooklyn, what was the point of “under armour” if it wasn’t armor and was frequently not worn under anything, was Gogurt a food or a toothpaste, did he have a girlfriend? This last, Steve tip toed around with clever analogies of dancing partners and bashful blue-eyed glances. Eventually, they reached a point where they could speak for hours at a time, just as they used to, though it left Bucky drained and sleeping hard in twelve-hour stints broken up with endless seeming night terrors.

 

The next activity had been touch. Casual bumps of the arm or hip. A firm grasp of the hand. About this time, Steve began waking to find Bucky in his apartment, usually sprawled on the couch or standing restlessly on the balcony, looking out over the city, his blue eyes dark under furrowed brows. One morning, before the sun rose, however, JARVIS woke him quietly.

 

“Sir, it appears Sergeant Barnes is attempting to gain access to your sleeping quarters. What would you have me do?”

 

Steve sat up, bed sheets falling to his waist. The room was dark but for the glow of the city filtering in behind the blinds. He scrubbed a hand over his face.

 

“Let…let him in, I suppose.”

 

JARVIS seemed to sense the hesitation in his voice.

 

“He does not appear to be having a dissociative episode, though he is showing physical signs of distress. I am advising him that you are awake, and I am unlocking the door now.”

 

With a hiss, the door slid open and Bucky padded in. He wore only an old gray t-shirt and black shorts, his longer hair pulled into a loose tail at the back of his head.

 

“Buck? You alright?” Steve asked warily, blinking in the low light.

 

“I-I’m…” Bucky’s answer was hesitant, but he edged forward. “I can’t…I keep seeing…”

 

Steve nodded, no further answer required, and pulled the covers back. Bucky sat gingerly at the edge of the bed, as though afraid his weight would crack the frame.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Steve asked, knowing the answer already. Bucky shook his head, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and Steve didn’t press. The therapists had suggested that if Bucky wasn’t willing to speak of something that forcing him to do so could trigger flashbacks of violent mission debriefings he’d experienced in the hands of HYDRA.

 

Steve levered himself out bed, bare torso chilled without the heat of his blankets, and headed to the kitchen for a glass of water. By the time he’d returned, Bucky was blessedly asleep again, wrapped tightly in the comforter Steve had vacated. As carefully as he could, he lowered himself back onto the mattress, covering up with the flat sheet and settling in. Bucky mumbled softly at the disturbance, rolling over, and Steve could feel the softness of his friend’s breath against his shoulder. He rolled to face him, using the uncommon time to take in Bucky’s relaxed features. His beard had grown in in a shadow of stubble, much darker than it had been when they were young, and his brows were creased, even in sleep. It leant his face a look of concentration, despite the lack of consciousness. Slowly, Steve reached out, barely breathing, and cupped his friend’s sharp jaw.

 

It was impossible to describe the feelings he’d had since Bucky had returned. Fear and joy, intense confusion, and a deep and unrelenting sadness had marked every hour of those first few weeks. But now, apprehension reigned supreme. There was so much to say, but with a mind as fragile as Bucky’s was, even after the months of work in therapy, buried feelings were always on the back burner. Always a bump in the road to swerve around in moments where Bucky needed comfort. Do not say those words. Do not tell him that you love him, that you have always loved him and that he is desperately wanted. Do not…

 

Bucky squirmed in his sleep, blue eyes opening a fraction of an inch to look at Steve, who froze. Tension crawled up Steve’s arm as he fought down the instinct to pull away, knowing that if he were to move too suddenly, he may spark an episode. However, instead of pulling away with that half terrified look Steve had come to know too well, Bucky scooted gently forward, and slowly, carefully, pressed his face into the touch, lips lightly touching the ball of his thumb. He was warm, relaxed, and Steve could feel just a hint of his pulse, all the while his own blood roared in his ears.

 

They exchanged no words, but the gentle press of Bucky’s lips against his palm was enough. Steve carefully edged forward, and when Bucky didn’t push away, he slung his free arm around his friend’s waist over top of the comforter. They stayed still, a foot of space between them, and while Steve’s elbow ached with the angle, he wouldn’t have pulled away even if the building was burning down around them. After what felt like hours of watchful waiting, Bucky moved again, though this time Steve stroked a thumb over the man’s cheek. Bucky cracked those blue eyes, those eyes that Steve had dreamt of all too often in the ice, and stretched out an arm to grab at the captain and pull him sleepily under the covers. Against Steve’s bare chest, Bucky tucked his chin in and moved no more that night.

 

Steve couldn’t say if it had been that night’s events, but from then on, Bucky had been more forthcoming with touch, and frequently left his own apartment to share Steve’s bed—though never without having been woken by a nightmare first. They sat knee to knee on the couch during movies, sometimes Bucky buried cold toes under Steve’s thigh, or Steve would stroke a hand over Bucky’s hair when the man was engrossed in a book or television show. They stood shoulder to shoulder at the sink while washing dishes, and when he thought Steve was sleeping, Bucky would explore Steve’s enhanced form in ways that he’d never done before, even during the war when he’d asked so many questions—did it hurt? Is it permanent? A press of fingers against a trapezius, a stroke down his spine, a curling grasp around the curve of his hip, and just once, Bucky pressed nearly full length against Steve’s back, bare skin touching, and gently brushed his lips over the nape of the captain’s neck. The night this had happened, Steve lay awake for hours in Bucky’s embrace, feigning sleep and listening to the pattern of Bucky’s breath as it sunk back into its deep rhythm.

 

Progress seemed to halt this night, however. When Steve woke, it was to the press of Bucky’s raging erection against his lower back. He choked out a breath, not wanting to wake him, but it was too late. Bucky woke with a soft groan and stretched, the motion dragging his hardness against the cloth of his shorts and the firm plane of Steve’s back. He froze, but just as quickly as he did so, he rolled away, standing smoothly and heading to the bathroom. Steve heard the hushing of the shower. It was several days of sleepless nights before Bucky returned to Steve’s bed, though this time he adamantly faced the wall. There was no more gentle exploration, and Steve silently mourned its loss.

 

Proximity, it seemed, was not enough to stave away Bucky’s traumas. Twice in one particularly bad month, Steve woke to a wet bed and trembling Bucky, the man’s arms wrapped around his shuddering frame. In the same four weeks, the captain found himself on the end of an attack that left him with a monstrous black eye that took frantic explanation to the other Avengers to avoid sequestering Bucky back to his own floor. It was several weeks before Steve felt the familiar shift of his mattress, but this time, when Bucky lay to face the wall, Steve closed the gap, wrapping his arm snugly around the man’s waist and spooning against his back, holding on until the tension drained away and they slept undisturbed. He would not ever again let this man think he was unwanted.

 

“Steve?”

 

Steve shook out of his reverie, looking to Sam who was guiding the car to a sliding halt at a stop light.

 

“Anything out of the usual happen?” he asked again. “Anything that could give us a clue to where he might be?”

 

“He…” Steve started, fumbling the words with a hot face. “It wasn’t his fault. I told him something that I don’t think he was ready to hear and we…disagreed. Same night he sent the text. But he didn’t say anything about where he was going.”

 

“What did you say?” Sam asked, calmly directing his Bluetooth to call Bucky, but receiving voicemail yet again.

 

“I told him I…” Steve grimaced and looked back out the fogged window, wiping away some of the moisture to stare out into the storm for his lost companion. “That I…”

 

“Steve. It’s safe with me, man.”

 

Steve breathed deeply through his nose, hoping to unstick the words from his throat, which was somehow harder than unsticking them from his heart now that he’d been made to suffer the consequences of sharing them.

 

“I told him I loved him.”

 

There was silence from the other side of the vehicle, before a softly voiced “Oh, Steve.”

 

The captain huffed out a breath.

 

“Look, I know it was the wrong move. But I couldn’t take the feeling like I was lying to him all the time, like I couldn’t live up to my potential as someone who promised to protect him at all costs. How can you protect someone from themselves when they feel like everyone around them despises them for things that they had no control over, when their own mind his breaking them down in tiny increments that even they don’t know are chipping away? How can I let him sit in the middle of the night, in fucking tears and hurting like that and not…and not tell him? I waited too long in ‘43, and I’m not going to let him fall away from me, Sam. I can’t do it again, and it was like I was watching it happen in slow motion. And I thought…I thought maybe the holiday would…maybe jog some memories if I just said it plain as day.”

 

“So you tried to manipulate him.” It wasn’t a question.

 

Steve screwed his eyes shut, crossing his arms over his chest.

 

“When you put it that way, it sounds really awful. But…I guess that’s what was happening, wasn’t it?”

 

Sam was silent for a time.

 

“At least you know what it looks like. So what do you want to do now?”

 

“I want to keep looking for him,” Steve said. “It’s a big city, but I think I need to walk this one on my own tonight. Can you drop me off here at the corner?”

 

Sam pulled over slowly and Steve opened the door, a cold wind blustering into the car and biting at Steve’s ears. He stepped out, but bent back down to say his goodbyes.

 

“Look I…”

 

“Steve,” Sam interrupted. “I understand, okay. Just…just don’t make this about you. If you find him, just help him home. Get him out of the cold. Deal with your screw up after he’s safe and warm.”

 

Steve sighed, looking down at his booted feet standing in several inches of snow. “Roger that.”

 

“And Cap,” Sam added, “stay warm out here.”

 

Steve smiled at his friend’s words—Sam was always concerned for his companions’ wellbeing, whether he was letting them know they were being idiots or genuinely wishing them well.

 

“Merry Christmas, Sam.”

 

“Merry Christmas, Steve.”

 

Steve closed the door with a thunk and stepped back as Sam navigated through the snow, taking in his surroundings, the wind howling around him. The power had gone out in the city hours before, ice accumulating on power lines and dragging them down. Brooklyn looked much as it had in the early part of the twentieth century—heavy snow blanketing the harsh details of the future and muddling them to something almost recognizable, soft. Home.

 

Steve took a steadying breath and trudged forward, boots crunching in the white crystals beneath his feet. There was a solid ten inches, maybe more, and any footprints he may have followed were long gone under the cover. The falling temperatures were doing nothing to help, and Steve turned his collar up against the wind’s bite.

 

He worried over Bucky profusely. How could he have been so stupid? He’d known it was likely to drive the man away, just as his secrecy had done when they were younger—but he had to try. He couldn’t sit on the miasma any longer without risking even greater damage to their relationship. And now here it was—Christmas Eve in a stinking blizzard, with Bucky nowhere to be found and temperatures dropping dangerously low as the hours dragged on into the night.

 

Steve silently berated himself for his lack of control. For the weakness of his honor. But as he slogged through the mess, his mind also wandered to those early years of their friendship—before he could ruin things with this undeniable part of himself.

 

***

 

“Bucky!” Steve whispered, his high voice barely audible above the nest of their blankets in the shared bed.

 

“What, Stevie?” his friend answered.

 

“Listen!”

 

The two boys were tucked into bed, Christmas Eve 1926. They had bounced and laughed late into the night, eating popcorn, sugared plums, and candy canes until Sarah Rogers had had enough and sent them to bed under the pretense that if they continued to shout and misbehave that Santa Claus and his eight reindeer would bypass their home altogether. They’d gasped theatrically, but heeded Steve’s mother and lowered their voices enough that the only sound to be heard in the house was Sarah singing softly in the adjacent living room.

 

_Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree…_

 

She’d hung every bauble with care, allowing Steve and Bucky to help with a few of the lower boughs. The boys had come away sticky with sweet-smelling sap and took turns sticking scraps of colored tinsel to one another with the natural glue.

 

_Thy leaves are so unchanging…_

 

Tiny candles inside sparkling glass domes sat on the thicker limbs, lighting the room with a soft orange glow. Only for a while had the boys been able to enjoy this part of the evening. Their bellies warm with Christmas treats, they were quickly dozing.

 

_Not only green when summer’s here,_

_But also when t’is cold and drear…_

 

Bucky was the first to wake in the night. He rubbed a small fist over sleepy eyes, but the unmistakable tinkle of bells snapped him to alertness.

 

“Stevie. Stevie, wake up!”

 

“Hmm? What, Buck? I’m tired! Mom said…”

 

“Forget what your mom said! Listen!”

 

Steve sat up, his striped nightshirt a rumpled mess about his small frame. But before long, he heard the sound as well. The two boys locked eyes, glee cracking smiles across their cheeks.

 

“Santa!” the exclaimed together in loud whispers.

 

They carefully extricated themselves from the tangle of blankets, wrapping up in their threadbare robes and slippers. Sneaking to the door, the boys pressed their ears against the wood. Again they heard the bells jingling merrily from the other side, and a slight scuffing of what sounded like heavy boots. Slowly, cautiously, Bucky reached for the knob, his own blue eyes meeting with Steve’s, and the smaller boy gave a determined nod. He turned the knob and flung the door open, the two of them clamoring into the front room of the small home.

 

In the darkness, there was nothing to be seen, but Steve caught the whiff of cold, crisp air amidst the pine boughs of the Christmas tree. He ran to the front door, opening it wide, the wind catching at his pajamas. Bucky trundled up next to him and they both scanned the sky for any hint of the red-suited man they knew had to have been there—they’d heard him so clearly! But there was nothing. Only the jingling of bells on the tree inside.

 

“Steven Grant Rogers and James Buchanan Barnes! You two close that door this very instant! You’ll catch your death of cold!” Sarah Rogers shouted from inside the apartment.

 

The boys winced at the use of their full names and turned back, but not before taking once last glance up into the clear night sky. A few stars twinkled brightly, but there was no sleigh, no reindeer, and no man with the white beard and rosy cheeks that they so longed to see.

 

“Honestly, I don’t know what has gotten into you two. Get back in bed! Come on!”

 

As they passed the tree, however, their eyes grew wide. A small pile of presents, more though than they’d ever seen in their childhood, sat beneath the tree, red, gold, and green wrapping paper and ribbons a rich sight to behold.

 

“Momma! Santa’s been here!” Steve cried, reaching for his mother’s sleeve to pull her attention to the tree.

 

She smiled a small smile, her hands soft on his shoulders as she bent to kiss his hair.

 

“Well so he has been. But that doesn’t mean you two should start misbehaving. Remember, he could always pass us up next Christmas! Go on, off with you!”

 

Steve and Bucky raced to their bed, shedding slippers and robes in a heap. They pulled the covers up to their small chins, eyes gleaming.

 

“Did ya see all that, Stevie?” Bucky asked, voice still awed. “All them presents!”

 

Steve nodded quickly, almost breathless with excitement.

 

“Uh huh! I bet I get those baseball cards I asked for!”

 

Bucky was quiet compared to his friend. His eyes suddenly soft and a little sad.

 

“What’sa matter, Buck?” Steve asked.

 

“Do…do you think Santa Claus brought anything for me this year? I…I don’t know if I’ve been very good. Sister Mary’s always hittin’ my knuckles for fightin’.”

 

Steve reached over and hugged his friend close.

 

“But you’re only ever fightin’ on account’a me. Santa knows that, I’ll bet. Don’t you worry. You’re the best guy that ever lived!”

 

Bucky smiled, now almost a little teary. He nodded though, and his ears perked up at more sound from the living room. Sarah was humming her tune again, and quickly the boys were asleep in each other’s arms, the midnight excitement draining from their bodies.

 

_Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree,_

_Thy leaves are so unchanging…_

***

 

Steve pushed his way through the snow as the night grew colder still. There was not a sound to be heard but the wind blowing through bare tree branches and the occasional late Christmas shopper scurrying home to get inside. Cars parked on the sides of the road were easily buried in the drifting white waves.

 

He dared not shout Bucky’s name, loathe to announce to the public that the Winter Soldier, who’d been plastered all over TV screens and newspaper front pages, was missing in the streets of NYC. He pulled his hands out of his pockets, warming them with his breath as he walked on. The cold air caught in his throat, however, and he coughed. A simple bodily function that sent his mind reeling back in time.

 

***

 

Steve lay in bed, his forehead burning with fever. It was Christmas morning, 1937, but without his mother, Steve didn’t see much point in celebrating anything. He’d had no money for a tree or gifts, nor had he in the few years before his mother’s death, but this year was particularly difficult. She’d always been the reason for the season, with her good cheer and ability to turn even the scantest about of food in the cupboard into a feast fit for any company. She’d been Steve’s whole world—she and Bucky that is.

 

Bucky was nowhere to be found these days, it seemed. He worked a job at the local grocer, and after punching out, he liked to buy a soda pop and a cigarette, and head to the dance hall to chat with the pretty dames. Steve knew he cramped the other boy’s style, but he couldn’t help but feel a sting of jealousy. Not for Bucky, but for the girls. For years now, Steve had watched his best friend grow up in all of the ways he wished he would, and when Bucky had started paying attention to the blushing, giggling girls at the dance hall, Steve was hurt, though he’d never admit it, and his mood grew bleaker still in the days after his mother’s death.

 

He was small, and there was nothing particularly special about him, but he’d always thought of Bucky as just his. They shared everything, from meals to toys to feelings and they were thicker than thieves, but for Steve, something bright and warm grew that he’d hoped would ultimately be reflected in his friend. As they grew older, however, it became painfully clear to him that his desires were misplaced. Bucky jeered with the rough boys on the corner, and one summer, report after report came through newsprint—queer man beaten in the alley. Homosexual devils work beside your children, leading them astray into a life of sin and hellfire. Poof hunting legal under extenuating circumstances.

 

For a while, he’d tried to comfort himself. He wasn’t a fairy. This was different—it was just a strong friendship. But as his hand wandered in the bath and Bucky’s grinning face and forever wholesome and muscular form drifted through his mind, he could deny himself no longer. His mother had always said, “Have faith. What will be will be,” and he took this to mean that things would work out in his favor if he just had enough patience, if he just outwaited the hate that bubbled through New York, if he just waited…but Bucky left for date after date, and Steve started to wonder if his faith would be better spent elsewhere, better spent having faith that God would take this unnatural and sinful desire from him. How he wished he could ask for his mother’s advice now—but she was gone, and he’d never taken the time to ask her before. And this time, there was no going back. This time, he might just let the fever take him.

 

Steve fretted in sweat-soaked nightmares for a time while the pneumonia burned at him and filled his lungs with fluid that no amount of coughing could break free. He remembered his father, his dog, his mother, and even the school yard bullies that punched and pushed—each swam through murky dreamscape, eating at him, reaching, grasping with claws that seared his skin. He deserved this pain—he had asked for it after all. Maybe this was how the Lord would burn him clean—a trial of fire. He was alone in the dark, his limbs heavy and weak, eyelids refusing to open, and he lay in soft blackness to let the spirits pile on and pull him away from the earth.

 

But no such relief would come to him. A shaking light in the darkness called, a blessedly cool breeze caressed his face, and the dark retreated, if only by a fraction of an inch. A single, clear carol broke through the howls.

 

_O come all ye faithful…_

Steve rallied—got up one more time.

 

_Joyful and triumphant…_

 

“Steve? You in here? Steve!”

 

The small man cracked open painfully heavy eyelids, but he knew he must be dreaming still as Bucky’s worried face hovered above him, a fuzzy halo surrounding his head.

 

“Hey Buck,” Steve croaked out. He didn’t get far beyond those words, however, and he slipped back to the edge of consciousness.

 

“Steve. Steve, come back, can you hear me?”

 

He shook his head slowly, a wave of shivers rolling over him.

 

“No, Buck. It’s alright. I gotta…gotta go find mom. Gotta tell her I love…”

 

“Steve, Sarah’s gone. Steve it’s me, please. Please just come back.”

 

Steve opened his eyes again. The voice was too insistent, too strong to ignore. Bucky still had a halo, but his face was clearer now. Steve spoke to what he was sure was an apparition.

 

“Buck, how am I supposed to get clean if you keep holding me back here? I gotta get to that fire. Gotta find mom. She’ll know what to do.”

 

Bucky stared at his friend’s pallid face. The house was freezing, and he was loathe to drag him out from under the covers, but if he was going to break the fever he had no choice. He quickly he threw all the blankets off of Steve’s small frame but the thin sheet and hauled him up. He was burning hot, and steam visibly rolled out of the damp feather mattress in the cool air. As the chill touched him, he shook terribly, a helpless motion that brought tears to Bucky’s eyes. There was nothing, they had nothing, he didn’t know what to do…

 

“Buck…let me get mom. Come on, I gotta tell her. She’ll know…”

 

“She ain’t gunna know shit! You stay with me, you hear?!”

 

“I gotta tell her I love…”

 

Bucky kicked the small heater stove into action after laying Steve out on the couch, poking wood into the bed of coals that had nearly died out. He blew hard until orange flames licked up the sides and wiggling waves of heat floated out of the top of the appliance. It was slow going, and with every crackle and pop of bark he was afraid the flames would go out—would leave them in darkness and cold.

 

When he was satisfied the flames were catching well enough, Bucky scrambled back to the couch and shoved it as close to the stove as he dared. Steve wasn’t moving but for the shivering and clenching of his muscles. He was ghostly pale, and Bucky ran to the kitchen, dunking a rag into the water jug on the table and ringing it out in the sink basin. There was no medicine in the cabinet, or he’d have fetched that as well. Even so, Steve seemed like he’d be unable to swallow even the smallest of aspirins.

 

Bucky raced back to the living room where his friend now lay still, not even shivering. He positioned the cold rag onto Steve’s forehead and flung his coat over the two of them, picking Steve up. He gritted his teeth—it shouldn’t be so easy to haul him around like this, his bones shouldn’t jut the way they do. Guilt broke over him—he should have been there. Bucky knew he’d been purposefully busy, avoiding Steve when he got the chance, unable to work through the confusing feelings that bubbled inside him when he met those constant blue eyes, heard that deep voice say that he could keep up the fight all day. He’d been distracting himself with girls and dancing for months now and all it had done was make things worse, made him into a lousy friend. This never would have happened if he’d just…if he’d just been honest from the start.

 

He placed his head on Steve’s chest, listening for a heartbeat, a breath, anything…

 

“Gotta tell her…” Steve whispered.

 

Slow, hot tears rolled down Bucky’s cheeks and fell onto Steve’s nightshirt. This was it. This was all his fault, and there was nothing he could do now but wait for the fever to take the boy he…

 

“Gotta tell her I love…”

 

Bucky choked on his words, but could think of nothing else to do to comfort his friend.

 

“What do you gotta tell her, Steve? What do you gotta tell her that you can’t just fucking tell me?”

 

“Gotta tell her I…” Steve’s voice was barely a breath, and Bucky raised his ear above his friend’s mouth to hear better.

 

“…tell her I love…”

 

“Steve, please God don’t go. Please just tell me. Don’t go, don’t go, please please…just stay. She knows you love her, you don’t have to go…”

 

“…him.”

 

And at this, Bucky broke. For the first time since he could remember, he sobbed raggedly, clinging to his friend in the slowly warming room before the fire.

 

“…tell her I love…B-Buck…she’ll know what…to do…”

 

For the rest of the night, Bucky just held him, whispering into his hair as he pressed tight-lipped kisses to his burning forehead.

 

“I…I love you too, Steve. Please, I…I didn’t know it, but I now I do and I can’t…Please don’t leave me, please Stevie just stay.”

 

When it seemed like the shivers that wracked Steve’s body had worsened, Bucky did the only thing he could think of to sooth his friend and himselef. Sarah had always sung to them at Christmas time—lulling them to sleep by this same fire or by a sparkling tree decorated with lights and bulbs.

 

_O come ye, oh come ye…_

His voice was rough, but he’d been humming the tune as he’d first walked into the small apartment that night.

 

_To Bethlehem…_

 

How he survived that night, Steve would never really know. When he woke the next morning, it was on the couch, spooned tightly into Bucky’s embrace. The fever was gone, leaving only trembling and weakness in its wake. Had it all been real?

 

It must have been a dream.

 

There was no way that Bucky would have said that he loved him back.

 

***

 

Steve walked faster through the snow, but at times the streets and buildings felt completely unfamiliar, despite the general layout of the city not having changed much since he’d been a young man. It was unnerving, and in the big, wide space blanketed in dense and silent white, searching for a friend who didn’t want to be found, Steve Rogers felt truly alone.

 

These people he protected with his life—did any of them know him beyond the face plastered over televisions and newspapers? Would any of them want to know him now that it was so clear that he had faults just as they did? That he could be manipulative and afraid and needy and all of those other things that could only be construed as cruel and weak?

 

He shook his head, breath billowing out before him, and jammed his hands in his pockets. That was no way to think just now. It was freezing, and he needed to find Bucky without making the night about his own shortcomings.

 

Steve passed a blue post box, nearly buried in snow drift, and it sent him back in time once more.

 

***

For the first time that he knew of, Steve was at a loss for words. His pen hovered over the paper, but no sentences would come. What on earth could he say? That he missed Bucky so much it hurt just to live in the apartment, looking at their shared, now nearly empty, space? That he’d tried a third time to enlist, only to be turned away in shame? Bucky would kill him if he knew that one. That he loved him and had never told him because he was a shrinking coward?

 

Steve sighed and chose an innocuous sort of thought to scribble out.

 

“Dear Bucky,

 

I hope training is going well over at Lehigh. I heard from a few guys around town that that’s the best place to go if you want to be sure to see some combat. Soldiers that come out of there are some of the toughest and smartest we’ve got on the front lines.

 

Is it looking like Christmas over there, yet? It’s probably not that much different from home. We got some snow on the ground, but it’s been mostly ice and just cold cold cold. I sent you a gift in the mail last week—I haven’t heard back from you yet, but let me know if you got it. I won’t tell you what it is so you can be surprised. Here’s a hint: it rhymes with ‘rocks’ and will keep your feet warm.

 

Things are good here. I picked up a job at Mr. Beaman’s hardware before the holiday. The sawdust has me in fits sometimes, but I think that it’ll clear up in the spring when it’s not so dry and ain’t kickin’ up all over the place. The hours are good, and I’m gettin’ paid a fair wage, but l still ain’t rollin’ in the dough just yet. I gotta save up to get my watch fixed—broke it trying to wind it up too far.”

 

Steve’s hand slowed. Why on earth should Bucky care about his broken watch when he was over in basic training, probably exhausted every minute of the day? Steve felt like he’d run out of every-day activities to talk about though, so now what? What on earth could he say to someone who he looked up to, who he loved so fiercely, who was always so much better than he was at everything he applied his hand to? He tried again to pick up a thread.

 

“Christmas hasn’t been the same without you (and all the other guys in the neighborhood) to give me hell. I ain’t got a tree, since I can’t carry it by myself. And I didn’t have to wrap any presents I bought for myself. We’ve had a few carolers stop by, but I miss you singing all those old songs Mom taught us—I wish it wasn’t so cold, or else I’d go out singin’ with the group that comes from the church, but the doc says it’s probably not a good idea. It’s been so quiet here.”

 

It occurred to Steve that the silence had bothered him more than he’d realized. At times, especially during the night, it seemed to press all around him, reminding him that his friend had been chosen and he’d been left behind, an afterthought, yet again. His sense of honor burned at him—nagged him to go try enlisting just one more time. One more time. This time for sure, if he’d just learn to say the right things.

 

“Hope you’re keeping all those soldiers on their toes. Show em what you’re made of, jerk, or I’m going to have to come out there and learn you all a thing or two about how to throw a punch. Keep in touch.”

 

Steve bit his lip, eyes glancing around the quiet kitchen. The stove in the living room crackled warmly, and for once he’d had the cash to spring for a small bit of ham to celebrate the Christmas season, but it wasn’t the same without Bucky there to fill the space with his big laugh and bigger personality. He always had a way about him that made the apartment seem like home, whether it was the calm he exuded while playing solitaire at the kitchen table or the contagious excitement and confidence that rolled of him when he had a new scheme cooked up for getting Steve a gal.

 

Again, he eyed the letter with some regret. He couldn’t write what he was feeling—there was no way he’d put his friend in danger like that, even if he had a clue as to how to put the thoughts into words. Since the bout of pneumonia two years prior, they’d somehow become even closer, and they had grown dependent upon each other for small comforts, though neither had realized it was happening. Bucky went out less, staying in with Steve to draw or listen to the radio, or do work around their neighborhood. Once over the summer, they’d whitewashed a fence together, Bucky shirtless and brown in the hot sun, attracting stares from women who walked by. Steve, however, had burned to a crisp, and Bucky teased him mercilessly about his lobster complexion, but he’d always been there with a burn-soothing damp cloth and some cream, rubbing it tenderly into Steve’s skin at night while they sat together on the sofa.

 

They’d gone to movies, sitting close, and shared meals while their feet and legs mingled beneath the diner table. Accidental bumps turned into purposeful ones, and somehow everything just seemed to work. Still, they never said anything about what had come over them, though it was obvious to anyone around them, as evidenced by the exponential increase in beatings Steve took in the alley. Every other week it was a black eye, a split lip, a bleeding nose, that accompanied him into the kitchen where Bucky patched him up, scolding and clucking like his mother used to do.

 

Steve looked back to his letter. To hell with it.

 

“Love, Steven Grant Rogers.”

 

He sealed the envelope, affixing a stamp to its corner, and threw a coat on to rush down the snowy sidewalk to the mailbox. Steve peeked around; there was no one in sight but a small girl and her sister tossing snowballs at one another in the street a block away. He laid his lips softly against the paper in his hands in a gentle kiss before dropping it into the box. He hoped for a response to all of the other correspondences, but for months his letter box had remained empty, doubling his intense feelings of abandonment and spurring his desire to enlist, to join his friend by his side on the lines where he belonged.

 

As Steve trudged back along the sidewalk, a song prickled idly in the back of his mind.

 

_…that mourns in lonely exile here…_

 

***

 

Steve shook snow from his hair—the cold white crystals accumulating quickly. Building after building he passed, exploring down alleyways and popping open the lids of large dumpsters. None of the places he’d come to know as a young man existed any longer, but he knew Bucky had to be somewhere in the city still—no travel services were currently running due to the storm.

 

On one dark corner, Steve came across a man. He was of medium height and build with a heavy backpack and trench coat that was made more for spring rain than winter gails.  It would have seemed normal had the streets contained their usual bustle, but at the hour and in this weather, Steve was leery of anyone not actively attempting to seek shelter from the cold. The man, however, stood stock still, only animating when Steve crunched closer to him.

 

“Hey man, spare some change for a vet? Tryin’ to get a bite to eat.”

 

Steve patted his pockets, but came up empty handed—rarely did he carry tangible money on his person. On any other day, he might have tossed out a curt “Sorry” and been on his way. He’d been scammed before, and his trusting nature often led him into trouble. But there was something in this Christmas Eve night that begged him pause. Something wild yet peaceful that swirled beneath the clouds of breath and whorls of snowflakes that drew him in close.

 

The man didn’t smell of the typical alcohol and cigarettes that Steve had expected, nor did he carry a sign or any other indication that he was asking for money. He merely stood silently amidst the snow drifts, staring down the sidewalk in the opposite direction that Steve had come from. It occurred to Steve then that the man had asked his question without turning to face him, and so he was forced to walk around to his front look at him.

 

He was dark of complexion, with wiry black hair that curled around his ears. It hung in damp strings, soaked with snow melt. He had a beard that was shorn close to his face, framing full lips under a straight nose and eyes nearly as black as his hair—eyes that still didn’t settle on Steve, despite the captain’s closeness.

 

“Hey man, you okay?”

 

The man blinked suddenly, rousing from his stillness, almost as if surprised that Steve was standing there speaking with him, though he’d asked him a question moments before.

 

“No, I’m Amir,” the man replied, voice of a dreamy quality that rubbed over Steve’s psyche like a charge. The man was familiar somehow. Maybe he’d seen in him before, or interacted during one of the crises that at times befell the city under his watch.

 

“Nice one, Amir. Look, are you needing some help right now? You seem pretty out of it.”

 

For a while, the man didn’t respond. Steve thought for a moment that he may have had dementia or some other sickness that had caused him to wander away from his home, but eventually he spoke.

 

“You’re Captain America, ain’t ya?”

 

Steve sighed internally, distinctly feeling as though his cover was blown, but kept a disarming smile on his lips when he answered.

 

“Ahh, yeah.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his head. “Listen, what are you doing out here tonight? Snow’s falling pretty hard—shouldn’t you be headed in?”

 

“Maybe I should ask you the same question,” the man replied. His voice was sharper than before, which startled an answer out of Steve more so than any willingness to share his evening’s activities. He still looked ahead into the distance.

 

“I’m looking for someone. He…he ran off tonight and I’m worried about him being out in the cold. Look, why don’t you let me take you some place warmer than this? I don’t think it’s safe outside right now if you aren’t dressed for the weather.”

 

The man shook his head, letting out a sigh that produced a formidable cloud of steam. He finally turned to Steve, meeting his eye in a piercing gaze that froze the captain in his place. But what came out of his mouth did not match in intensity.

 

“I don’t really have any place to go. Tonight got a little uglier than I expected and I got turned out from a few spots. So…” he shrugged his shoulders, rattling the pack on this back with his hands spread wide. “Here I am.”

 

Steve stopped in thought, gaining a sense of his bearings. The shelter he knew of was just a few blocks up in a neighborhood he had yet to canvas. He wouldn’t be wasting any time. The captain made a motion for the man to follow him.

 

“Come on. I know a place not far from here. I used to sta…I volunteered there for a while and they usually have a spot or two. I’ll walk with you.”

 

The man shook his head, clearly not wanting to impede Steve on his mission.

 

“No no, man. It’s Christmas. You do enough for this city without having to worry about some guy on the street. I can take care of myself. You gotta find your friend.”

 

But Steve persisted. Knowing the man had nowhere else to go, he had to at least try. He might even find Bucky in the same place—in fact, the more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed. He and Bucky had stayed at this shelter once or twice in their time. It was an older establishment—tall and brick, with multiple floors that creaked with age, even when they had been newer. Steve remembered the warm common rooms and springy cots that he’d bounced on as a child, seeing everything as an adventure rather than a life crisis. Bucky, with his bright blue eyes, dark hair, and round, cherubic cheeks had been a favorite of the matrons who were employed in the shelter and they frequently sent him back to Steve with a lipstick stain on his cheek and candy to share or a book to read.

 

Steve nodded—that settled it.

 

“You said you were a vet, right? Well, as captain, I’m ordering you to accompany me. March, soldier.”

 

The man laughed softly, the warm notes filling Steve with a kind of peace that made him think the man had been well loved, wherever he had come from. Tonight, however, he was in need of help that Steve was more than able to provide.

 

“You got it, Cap,” he said simply, with a half-hearted salute. “Where to?”

 

Steve checked the street sign again and began wading through the heavy snow flooding the sidewalk. His jeans were caked with ice, but with skin-hugging thermals underneath, the cold had yet to work its way to his core. Still, he knew that within a few hours, he was likely to be in some extreme discomfort, whether from temperature or the wetness of snow melt steadily soaking him.

 

“Just about six blocks from here. Can you make it?”

 

The man took a steadying breath, pulled his trench coat tightly around himself, and adjusted his pack.

 

“I think so. Let’s move out.”

 

The two men walked in near silence for a time. It felt good to have a sense of purpose that Steve could see. Searching for people was always a crapshoot. You either found them, or you didn’t, and often times neither case returned a person as whole as they’d once been. He’d been tensely surveying the city for hours with no luck, and pure exhaustion was likely to set in soon if the cold didn’t send him back to the tower first.

 

As they walked, Steve eyed the man beside him. He still couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew him, or at least that they’d met before, but he couldn’t quite place him. The man’s brown eyes never left the path before them, and as he walked he hummed a carol under his breath that Steve couldn’t make out. In the dense snow, however, the tune seemed to rise and fall on the wind like a spell, and he was well under its power before he knew what had happened.

 

They walked slowly and carefully, picking their way through the uneven piles of snow, and with every step, Steve somehow felt the cold ebbing away. Even his hands, which had been a stiff and angry bother to him as the wind blew harshly at times, pounded with heat. He felt as though he could spend the rest of the night searching and never lose a step to deal with the severe weather. Too soon, however, they had arrived at the shelter, and Steve opened the door for his easy-going companion, motioning for him to go first. Amir walked inside and made his way over to sit down in the only open space available on a bench near the small lobby’s radiator, placing his feet near the warm bars. Snow clung to his legs to the knee. In the light, Steve could see that Amir was much younger than his voice had led him to believe. There were almost no lines on his face, his dark beard and hair were free of any gray, and his eyes held a brightness that only accompanied youth. Realizing this, Steve made a promise to himself to redouble his efforts—the guy was just a kid.

 

As he made his way to the front desk, it became obvious to Steve that his plan had been foiled by the sheer number of people filling the area. There were cots and sleeping rolls as far as the eye could see in the common spaces, backed up against walls or overlapping each other on the floor. There were a few children, but it was mostly adults, each of whom looked a little worse for wear due to the storm. He rang a small bell near a clip board that brought a woman to him from the depths of the makeshift sleeping quarters. She wore glasses and a cardigan sweater over jeans and sensible hiking boots. Her brown hair was pulled back in a loose tail.

 

“Can I help you?” she asked, looking more than a little harried. As she proceeded to listen however, her gaze became more intent. “Oh my god! You’re Steve Rogers!”

 

Steve smiled the same disarming smile that he had offered his companion, nodded, and quickly finished telling her his business in the shelter as he leaned on the counter.

 

“Guilty. Glad to see you guys have the generators running—streets out there are dark as dark can be. I can tell this place is busy right now, but I’m looking for a place to leave my friend for the night. The storm is getting pretty bad out there and I can’t, in good conscience, leave someone out in it. Also, while you’re checking the books, can you look to see if a specific person passed through here? James Buchanan Barnes—might have signed in as Bucky. About six feet, dark hair, blue eyes…” Steve hesitated here, but without a full description, he couldn’t be sure that she’d be able to help him, so he finished. “And a prosthetic arm, probably covered up in a black jacket.”

 

“Well, the first one I can tell you right away isn’t going to be possible. We’ve got people sleeping in the halls, hell, people sleeping in the kitchen! At this point, I couldn’t guarantee that it would be safe here if a fire broke out, which of course, is possible, because I can’t get Joe to quit smoking in the bathroom and he just puts the butts in the trash and…” she rambled for a moment, clearly overworked and nearing the edge of her wits. “The second…well, I haven’t seen anyone matching that description, but I’ve been a little busy out back. Let me just pull up the check in sheet…

 

She pulled a tablet computer from a locked drawer in the desk, flicking open the screen and scrolling around for a time in a lengthy list of names before shaking her head, ponytail tossing a bit as she did.

 

“No, I’m sorry, sir. No one by that name here tonight. I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more help—have you tried any of our other branches in the city?”

 

Steve looked to Amir for an answer, and the man nodded quickly but didn’t say anything, quickly rubbing the feeling back into his legs as they warmed near the radiator. The captain sighed quietly. This was becoming complicated. Without being sure the man was in good hands, Steve couldn’t continue his search for Bucky, but with no other alternatives…no. No, he wouldn’t just abandon him to his own devices.

 

“He has. Thanks for your help,” Steve told her with a nod. “Merry Christmas, be safe tonight.”

 

Steve turned back toward the door and Amir followed, pulling it open in a blast of wind and heading out into the snow. Amir looked back at the lobby with a wistful eye on the radiator.

 

“No room,” Steve said, though he knew Amir had heard the conversation. “Got any ideas? I’m not leaving you until we’re sure you’re inside safe somewhere.”

 

“Hey, man, you don’t have to go through all this for me. I can manage, honestly, and I bet if I stood there in the lobby long enough they’d come up with a place to put me. You’ve got your friend you’re lookin’ for and besides, it’s Christmas! Don’t you wanna go home?”

 

Steve chewed on the thought. Home. Sure, he’d love to head back to the tower and peel off his soaked boots and socks to warm his toes by the heater that Tony had rigged to display as a fireplace. Would love to pour a cup of strong black coffee and drink it quietly with a book. Without Bucky, however, the tower was just a place—empty of its most important comfort. Without Bucky, it just wasn’t _home_. He shook his head.

 

“Can’t do that, sir. Not until I’m sure you’re set. What kind of captain would I be if I left my only soldier behind? Enough of that—let’s get thinking. I bet we could…”

 

“Why not that way?” Amir interrupted, pointing a finger down a cross street. “I’ve got a good feeling in that direction. And look…” he pointed into the sky where the stars were plentiful, as only possible when the city’s power grid was offline. One star in particular hung large and bright, low in the sky. “Seems like an appropriate course, with it being Christmas and all,” the man said, shrugging his shoulders. “I’ve got a feeling we’ll find what we need there.”

 

Steve glanced at the man skeptically, but when their eyes met, again he was struck by the thought that he was somehow familiar, and his large brown eyes begged trust in ways that Steve couldn’t possibly refuse. Bucky’s eyes looked that way when he so rarely asked for comfort—an honest plea for action that he knew he may never receive. Steve made up his mind and released a short sigh before nodding.

 

“Alright, let’s head out then. Just tell me if it’s hard to keep up or anything and we can stop to rest. And listen, while we’re walking, can you keep an eye out for anyone that might resemble the description I just gave to that woman?”

 

“Can do,” Amir said, and they pressed on back into the snow.

 

They’d only made it a few paces from the door when it burst open again, the woman from the front desk hot on their heels.

 

“Sir, wait!” she called after them.

 

Both men turned around to meet her, but she breezed past Steve, speaking to Amir.

 

“I’m sorry we don’t have the room, but here, please take these. They’re mine, so they may be a little small, but they’re warm.”

 

She handed the man a pair of chunky knitted mittens, reds and greens fading together in a Christmas motif with small trees and snowflakes. Amir looked up at her, his face bright with a smile. Steve couldn’t imagine how the woman must feel as the target of that smile—just catching it from the side flushed him with a sense of peace he’d only known in his childhood falling asleep in front of the wood stove.

 

“You’re a real guardian angel, Hannah,” he said, and accepted her embrace. As they hugged, however, he whispered into her ear and her brows furrowed as she pulled away.

 

“You think that will work?” she asked him, hugging her middle against the chill of the night air.

 

“I know so. Give it a try.”

 

She turned from them the with another short wave, tossing back: “It was good to meet you two! Merry Christmas!” through the storm.

 

As they began their journey again into the snow and wind, Steve turned to Amir.

 

“What did you tell her?” he asked, genuinely curious.

 

“I told her,” Amir started, pulling the mitten over his hands and casting his eyes ahead, not turning to look at Steve, “that if she wanted Joe to quit smoking in the bathroom that she should try telling him that if he doesn’t stop today the man upstairs is going to take what’s left of his lung by next Christmas.”

 

Steve blinked.

 

“And how could you possibly know that?”

 

Amir tossed his head back and laughed into the stormy night, a loud chuckle that startled Steve into laughter as well. It was impossible not to follow this man’s lead, and for a moment, Steve felt less the captain, and more the private, like he’d been the one to ask for help this dark Christmas Eve. They kept moving, occasionally checking the star ahead of them for his bearings, but he never did answer the question.

 

After what seemed like a mile in the snow, he asked a question of his own.

 

“This person must be pretty important to you to be out in this garbage looking for them, huh?”

 

Without hesitation, Steve answered with candid honesty. He was unlikely to see the man again, but something told him there would be no use lying to him.

 

“Most important. Known each other since we were kids. He uh…kind of had an accident like mine. We had a fight over something I said and he took off. Told me not to follow him.”

 

He felt vaguely uncomfortable divulging this information—the conversation quickly mirroring that he’d had with Sam in the car not two hours beforehand.

 

“But you’re following him,” Amir said flatly. “Even though he asked you not to?”

 

“I…” Steve floundered. Again, he felt that guilty stain. Was he truly following Bucky because of his worry for the man in the snow and cold, or was he hoping to have a chance to sooth his own conscience? To take back what he’d said? Was he manipulating Bucky just as he’d done before? “I think I have to say that I’m sorry, but honestly, I’m not sure I’ve thought out as far in this situation as everyone else seems to have done. I just…he’s gotta know. We’ve lived with this thing going unsaid for too long.”

 

Amir kept up his walking, knees pumping to lift his feet over the top of the snow that piled on the sidewalk. He was tiring, it seemed, but not so much that he couldn’t keep up the flashes of conversation they engaged in.

 

“He knows,” he said quietly after a while. “Kind of hard not to see it, really. Love’s like that.”

 

Steve was flabbergasted. Was he so transparent? In his time, this wasn’t something so freely spoken of, and inklings of shame still ate at him, even in the new century. He felt unnatural at times, or phony—Captain America, noble, honorable, and very unconventional in his love life.

 

Steve felt just as he did writing those letters so long ago—nervous and wordless, unable to communicate anything but shock. He’d learned one thing, though, and that was to take those speechless moments and let people think he was simply deep in thought. He walked on, heart beating uncomfortably in his ribcage, and said nothing. After a few minutes of this, Amir began to hum softly, filling the awkward space between them and somehow simultaneously assuring Steve that a quick comeback wasn’t necessary.

 

_Silent night, holy night…_

_All is calm, all is bright…_

_Round, young virgin…_

_Mother and child…_

_Holy infant so tender and mild…_

_Sleep in heavenly peace…_

_Sleep in heavenly peace…_

 

In the quiet, Steve remembered peace, and what they often sacrificed to maintain it.

 

***

 

Christmas Eve, 1943. Steve marched back into camp followed by the remains of his company down a muddy trail in the woods. It had been weeks since they’d seen so much as a familiar face, pushing the ally-controlled territory further east, and no amount of claps on the back or handshakes over maps that marked the lines of their advancing forces could convince him that this mission had been anything but a dismal failure. More than half of the men he’d fought alongside now lay in the back of a canvas top truck that rolled along behind them, wrapped in cloth soaked in god only knew what. Dirty faces locked in terrified grimaces, if they hadn’t been ravaged by grenade or rocket fire. He and Bucky had been separated in action, and Steve had had to apply all of the training he’d received on compartmentalizing his worry for the man in order to make it through the skirmishes without losing his wits completely, but as the company moved from checkpoint to checkpoint, he’d patrolled the edge of the caravan and found Bucky huddled in the same truck as those bodies, counting and recounting the manifest, his face spattered with mud and worse. He’d been part of the platoon most devastated by an unforeseen attack, bombs falling all around their makeshift trenches. They’d won the day and a critical position along the frontlines, but at what cost?

 

“Fifty-three, Steve. Fifty-three guys are dead. They’re all just…just gone? McMahon, Arnolds, Green….all of em. It could have been me or…or you…?”

 

There hadn’t been time for more than a squeeze of Bucky’s shoulder and a look promising they’d talk more before he’d been called to the front as they entered camp. Steve only half listened to the colonel in a severely truncated debriefing before being dismissed to his captain’s tent. He stalked across the camp, past men gathered around a common fire, singing Christmas tunes along with the lone harmonica player, blankets slung over their shoulders to keep in what warmth they could. Steve reached his tent and threw back the flap, he couldn’t bring himself to appreciate the season—he hadn’t done so in some years—and so he ignored their shouts of welcome, sequestering himself away. In the solitude behind the canvas, Steve raged. He yanked off the thick leather gloves and snatched his helmet from his head, throwing the heavy piece onto his trunk with a crash and clatter of straps, pacing the beaten path he’d already pounded into the earth over the months that the camp had remained standing.

 

It should have been so obvious—a small farming village, empty stone buildings—but they’d been hurrying, supplies low and the newest platoon on scout duty. A single boot catching a trip wire in the snow was all it took before they were under fire so heavy they’d been unable to even sound an alarm for hours. They’d made it through, but the damage was done.

 

As he paced, his mind raced faster and faster. What was he even doing in this position? Who had put him in charge of so many lives when all he was was a glorified performing monkey? A star-spangled man without a plan? Scores of people back home would mourn these men, and the only one to blame at the end of the day was him. He’d chosen the route, he’d chosen the team despite their inexperience, he’d even spaced the platoons incorrectly, assuming they’d been more in danger of attack from the rear than from a town they’d already thought clear. All of those men, dead, because of him.

 

His train wreck of a thought pattern was interrupted by a rustle of the tent flap behind him and he whirled, ready to tear into whoever had entered without express permission first. He froze however, as Bucky’s form entered and quickly fastened the dark canvas behind him.

 

“Buck?” he asked, perplexed. “You’re supposed to be at the infirmary with the truck…”

 

But Bucky stood before him silent, the mud, soot, and blood still soaking his shirt and spattered up onto his pale face. He trembled visibly in the dim light, his breath fogging before him and hands at his sides in an improperly performed attention stance.

 

“At…at ease, Buck. You don’t have to…what are you doing here? Why aren’t you at your post?”

 

“Steve I…” he started, but his voice caught in his throat. Thick tears choked his voice as an unbearable despair filled him and slowly began their trail down his face, leaving clean streaks in the dirt smeared there and dripping off his chin. “Steve I can’t stop…I can’t stop seeing them and I can’t…I can’t get it off...” He wrung at hands that Steve now noticed were soaked with dark, sticky blood. It saturated the sleeve of his stained olive shirt.

 

Steve’s face crumpled. He couldn’t keep the façade up any longer. Bucky stood before him hurting more than he could comprehend and he’d stayed silent and useless these weeks while the man had suffered on the field, locking his compassion away as he’d taken responsibility for the single purpose of returning as many men home as he could. Some of the losses, it seemed, were beyond those of the physical body.

 

He lurched toward the small table in the tent, sloshing some water from his canteen into a bowl and heating it on the small kerosene burner he’d been issued. He reached across the space and snatched Bucky by the lapel, pulling him down onto the hard stool more roughly than he’d meant to, and went about stripping the man’s shirt from him, exposing inches of cold, pale skin as he went. Bucky was skinnier than he’d been back in Brooklyn, hardly surprising as they’d survived solely on MRE’s frequently while overseas.

 

When his shirt was off, Steve spied the source of the bleeding, a gash running almost six inches down Bucky’s forearm. Taking Bucky’s arm carefully in shaking hands, he squeezed lightly to bring fresh blood to the surface, wincing as Bucky hissed in pain but satisfied that the wound would not require stitches. He pulled the first aid tin from under the spring cot and dumped its contents on the table, rummaging through the mess for gauze and iodine to clean and wrap the wound. He soaked a clean gauze pad in the water warming on the burner, clearing the dirt away from Bucky’s skin, and tightly bound the gash after a swab of the brown disinfectant.

 

Neither man spoke as Steve knelt in front of Bucky and worked carefully. Bucky remained pliant in his hands, too exhausted to keep up the tension that had wracked him in the field. When the wound was wrapped in clean white bandages, Steve progressed to the rest of the man’s form, taking his time to search for other injuries while he worked. First his hands, which quickly stained the pad and water rusty. Steve had always loved Bucky’s hands, with their broad palms and dexterous fingers. There were callouses now where there had been none before, and a smattering of scars across the knuckles—remnants of recent and not so recent fist fights both at home and abroad.

 

Steve passed the soaked pad over Bucky’s skin again and again until it shown pink and clean, wringing it out on the ground to keep the water in the bowl as clean as possible and adding more to heat as he drained it. He’d done this a hundred times before, scrubbing caked dirt and soot from his friend’s back in the tub back home when he’d worked at a foundry. This time, however, the macabre implications of the job left no room to take his time and enjoy the experience of being close to Bucky in this way. He worked up the man’s arms, which still trembled in shock, then down his back and sides in practiced patterns. One shoulder was mottled with purple bruising, and Bucky jerked away with a stifled groan as Steve probed at the spot for breaks or sprains. A chafed stripe ran across his chest, over his shoulder, and down his back where the wet strap of his rifle constantly rubbed while they marched, and a smattering of small, angry-looking pink burns marred his right hip. Steve found a matching set that spread up the side of his neck and jaw as he carefully wiped dirt from his face, the pad scratching over the week’s worth of beard growth. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Bucky had been…

 

“Buck—where were you when the bombs dropped?”

 

He held the man’s face, asking the question from inches away. Their breath mingled in the cold air between them. The moment would have been tender but for the blood and stink of iron—a moment that Steve had been longing to share with the man for nigh on a decade. But Bucky’s eyes grew dark, and though Steve’s grip on his face was strong, he managed to look away. Steve grit his teeth, knowing the answer already, knowing exactly what Bucky had suffered due to his negligence as a captain and tactician.

 

“Buck? Please…don’t shut down on me. What happened to you?”

 

“I…I was next to McMahon when uh…when he...He protected me when…with the bombs and I…” he gestured to the blood in the bowl on the table, his jaw tight under Steve’s hands, fists clenching in his lap. “He caught the shrapnel. Most of that is…is him and…and his head and I…”

 

“Oh…god Buck, I…I’m so sorry. I should have been there, I should have…”

 

But Steve couldn’t finish his apology. Bucky crashed forward, closing the gap between them, and pressed his lips firmly to Steve’s, grabbing him by the uniform in a white-knuckled fist. The kiss was hard, frantic, and full of what felt like battlefield panic, even shock. It wasn’t right—wasn’t the right time, or place, or situation. Steve wanted this badly, but it should be happening at home, after a good meal and too much wine—not in the guts of a warzone, half frozen and shit-scared. As much as he hated to do so, Steve put his hands to Bucky’s shoulders, pushing half-heartedly.

 

“Buck—Bucky wait, we can’t…”

 

“The hell we can’t,” Bucky protested in a growl that travelled straight to the captain’s groin. “I’m not going back in that field without this.”

 

Steve could see the frustration in his eyes, read it in the lines that formed between his brows and across his forehead. Bucky pressed in again, using strength that, had it been a year ago, would have easily overpowered Steve. Now, however, the super soldier consciously chose to let Bucky push him down to the ground, let him climb atop and straddle him with lithe grace that had his face burning pink and breath coming in a surprised gasp. The new physique may have come with the perk of extra attention here and there, but in waiting for the right partner and time, Steve had still never been intimate with another person in such a way. The feeling of Bucky astride him, hands holding him down by the chest to control his core but leave his arms free, muddled his thoughts while blood flowed as far from his brain as it could.

 

“Buck, please. Let’s at least talk about this first. You don’t want this, you’re just in shock,” he interjected, but Bucky was adamant, and with an experienced roll of his hips against Steve’s, the captain was stunned to silence again at the sheer intensity of the motion.

 

“I’ve wanted this since I was old enough to understand that I wanted this, Steve, god dammit,” he gritted out, keeping his voice from carrying beyond the tent. Steve could do nothing but watch as Bucky’s muscles played beneath his skin above him in the flickering light of the kerosene burner, breath still visible in panted clouds of steam, spots of color blooming high on his cheeks. Steve’s own uniform, hell, his own skin, felt strangely too tight. “If you tell me now that you haven’t wanted it too—that all the looks, all the touches, all the words and prayers you thought I couldn’t hear at night for all those years meant nothing—I’ll know you for a liar Steven Rogers and I’ll never fucking speak to you again. I’ll get my shellshocked ass a reassignment and I’ll get shipped back fucking stateside, but not before I punch your stupid, patriotic lights out right here in the fucking dirt Steve so fucking help me. I will leave you to deal with the fucking Nazis and the fucking bombs and the fucking blood all by your god damned, star-spangled self. For once in your life, Steve, just listen to me!”

 

Steve lay still, arms at his sides, in complete astonishment. For some reason, part of his mind was concentrating on the gritty quality of the dirt beneath his fingertips and the cold seeping into his back from the ground. The rest of it, however, was aware only of Bucky—of his presence, his smell, the way he filled his vision, the way his pale skin contrasted with the dark canvas above them, the way his dog tags glinted in the light against his chest and clicked when he bent down to kiss Steve again.

 

This time, Steve surrendered—surrendered to his desire, to his fears, to his hope, to his love, and to Bucky. He moved tentatively, his hands skimming, barely grazing Bucky’s sides, and eventually let them awkwardly stop at the man’s shoulders. He held on there, unsure of what to do next, only aware of Bucky’s weight against him, his racing heart, and the ever-growing throb in his groin. He could spend as long as he cared to on the frontlines of battle, but put him in scenario like this and he was as lost as he could be. Bucky seemed to sense this, and pulled back a fraction of an inch.

 

“Steve? Are…are you telling me you don’t…don’t want it?” he asked, blue eyes searching the face of the man pinned beneath him. His pink lips were kiss swollen and stood out in bright contrast to the pale of his cheeks, where Steve noticed a streak of mud that he’d missed in his earlier scrubbing.

 

“No!” Steve blurted, though he quickly shut his mouth to regain control over the volume of his voice. “No, Buck, I want it. I want you. I…I’ve always wanted you. I’m so sorry I never said anything. God, I…I hate myself for it. I should have said something before now—maybe this all would have turned out differently if I had just…”

 

“Probably not,” Bucky interrupted with a wry half smile, laying a gentle kiss to Steve’s chin. “We’d still be here, laying in the dirt, scared for our fucking lives. We just probably would have had a bit more sex first. There is a war on after all, whether or not we got our heads out of our asses.”

 

Steve choked, following it with a hollow laugh. He squeezed at Bucky’s shoulders, pulling back immediately when Bucky winced hard away from touch on his heavily bruised side. Instead, he slid one hand up to cup the man’s rough cheek, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

 

“You’re probably right,” he said, and with the next thought he looked down, eyes trailing up Bucky’s body, drinking their fill of a sight he’d longed for since he was a teenager. “But…for now this is…uh. Geez. It’s…”

 

Bucky caught on quickly enough.

 

“Got it, first time. For…for anything?” he clarified, and Steve nodded, blush deepening. “God, Steve. Okay, just…” Bucky settled himself with more purposeful movements against the captain, and Steve hissed at the way their bodies slotted so perfectly together. “Bend your knees a bit, put your feet on the ground, yeah, that’s it. Then just, put your hands here…” he guided Steve’s hands to his bare hips, just above his belt.

 

In the new position, Steve felt more easily in control of himself. He planted his feet, knees apart, and used his thighs and hands to simultaneously pull Bucky’s hips against him while grinding his own upward in a powerful, shallow thrust. Bucky groaned, riding the movement, and leaned forward again, kissing Steve fiercely. Steve tilted his head, and when Bucky pressed his tongue against him, asking entrance, he gave it freely, opening his mouth to him and letting their tongues move together in growing tension. Bucky tasted of coffee, cigarettes, and the wintergreen leaves he often chewed to sooth stress-induced nausea, and Steve moaned quietly into the intimate touch. His hips jerked once, twice in quick succession, rocking them hard before Bucky squeezed him with his thighs and pushed back against his chest.

 

“Woah there, partner. Slow down. You’ll end this before we’ve even gotten started. I’m not about to survive that bullshit out there to lose the battle in here.”

 

Steve nodded, his breaths coming in quick pants, unable to form words. The moment had unfolded so quickly that it was difficult to stop, but he pulled the power from his hips, pressing his tailbone to the hard earth beneath him to still their nearly involuntary motion.

 

“That’s it, big guy. Now…just—”

 

Steve seemed to read his mind. He let his hands trail up Bucky’s sides, travelling over muscle and sinew that he’d waited ages to become acquainted with in such a manner. Lightly he stroked across Bucky’s chest, fingers catching for a fraction of a second at Bucky’s nipples as he slid rough fingers down toward his stomach, but at Bucky’s short gasp, he returned to the sensitive flesh, rolling his thumbs over them to elicit other delicious sounds that had him as hard as he could be in seconds.

 

“Buck…” he panted, canting his hips upward again.

 

“Yes…fuck,” Bucky ground out, jaw slack and eyes screwed shut. His fists still gripped Steve’s uniform tightly, and despite his earlier desire to slow down, he seemed equally as incapable of stopping their movement this time. “Fuck, Steve, take this off. I want to see you.”

 

Steve nodded and took his hands away from Bucky’s skin to scrabble at zippers and clasps that held the top of his tactical uniform on. It came away with some effort, and Bucky threw the thing across the tent with a clatter. In the cold, Steve’s nipples had hardened to pink nubs, an easy target for Bucky, who ducked down and lapped a warm tongue across one, then the other, grazing his teeth across the thick muscle of Steve’s chest.

 

“Jesus,” Bucky panted, pressing wet kisses to Steve’s abdomen in each line and crevice. “Steve, you’re beautiful.”

 

At this, Steve could take it no longer. He wrapped one arm around Bucky’s waist, another around his shoulders, and heaved them both over, rolling until he was atop the other man, Bucky’s legs wrapped around Steve’s hips.

 

“So are you, Buck. God, I’ve wanted to say that to you for so long. You probably wouldn’t have said the same a few years back when I was just a little guy,” Steve admitted. “I was a pretty pathetic specimen even last Christmas.”

 

Bucky halted their movements with a hard squeeze of his thighs, reaching up and grabbing the captain’s face in a tight grip, palms against his jaw, fingertips threading back into his blond hair.

 

“Steve,” he said, voice clear and free of any jest. He leaned up and kissed the man deeply again, pulling him in by the back of his neck and using teeth to gently nip and tug and the captain’s lower lip, drawing a quiet moan from him. “You have _always_ been beautiful. You…you really have no idea, do you?”

 

Steve’s face burned hot and he buried it in Bucky’s neck, his mouth finding the skin there and sucking small dark bruises into it.

 

“Sure this is your first time, punk?” Bucky teased, though it came out as half a moan, bracketed by gasping breath.

 

“Jerk,” was all Steve could get out before Bucky pulled him over for another searing kiss.

 

Steve leaned low on his elbows, their mouths and tongues working together. At the new angle, Steve used his hips to his advantage, grinding in small circles against Bucky, who whimpered helplessly at the pressure, scratching red lines down Steve’s back that had the man arching up into his touch. Steve could feel Bucky’s cock through the fabric of their dark uniform pants, hard against his hip.

 

“Buck please…” he gasped. “I want…”

 

“Yeah…” Bucky replied breathlessly, pressing a hand against Steve’s chest and rolling his hips a final time. “Get up, sit on the bed.”

 

Steve pushed up, lifting himself the few inches to settle on the edge of the cot, catching his breath as he did so. Bucky scrambled into a kneeling position before him, hands on both of his thighs and wasted no time in reaching for the captain’s belt and fly.

 

“Can I?” he asked quickly, already starting to undo them.

 

“Y-yeah, yes,”

 

Bucky made short work of the barriers, and slowly reached in to pull Steve’s cock free. It stood hard and straight, the head blushing a deep red. Bucky licked his lower lip before looking up at Steve through his lashes.

 

“Steve…I’m gunna put my mouth on you, okay?”

 

Steve nodded and leaned back, giving Bucky access. Bucky leaned over him, meeting his eyes one more time before laying those hot kisses against his lower stomach. His tongue snuck out, wetting the skin here and there, and Steve nearly rocketed off of the cot when Bucky bit him lightly at the juncture of hip and thigh. But finally, after Steve was whimpering under his touch, Bucky wrapped his hand around the base of Steve’s cock and pressed his tongue flat against the underside, licking in short, firm swipes up to the head, dipping his tongue into the slit to collect the salty beads of precome. The captain grunted in surprise, the sound morphing into a low moan that he stifled with his hand as Bucky closed his lips around the head and sucked gently.

 

Slowly he sunk down onto Steve’s cock, inch by thick inch, eyes shut in a dreamy manner as he took in the sounds that spilled from Steve’s lips. They were more beautiful than anything he could have imagined, especially compared with the heavy gunfire he’d been hearing until twelve hours ago. Steve leaned back on his elbows watching Bucky move fluidly over him. He reached down, fingers threading into Bucky’s dark hair. He knew he wasn’t going to last long, and when Bucky looked up at him again, mouth stretched over him and eyes impossibly blue in the flickering light, he moaned loudly enough that Bucky reached up quickly, slapping a hand over his mouth to silence him. Steve kissed the palm and fingers, holding them to his lips before croaking out:

 

“Bucky, I…I’m there. I’m gunna….” He braced his feet in the dirt, hips stuttering.

 

“Mhmmm,” Bucky hummed around him, continuing to slide his mouth up and down over Steve’s shaft, often stopping to suckle slowly at the head.

 

At a final tight jerk of Steve’s hips, Bucky took Steve’s cock as deeply as he could, almost gagging himself, and squeezing his free hand around the portion that he couldn’t fit while keeping the other clamped firmly over Steve’s mouth. Together their clasped hands stifled a moan that vibrated down Bucky’s arm as Steve came hard. His hips thrust shallowly a few more times, sending streaks of come across Bucky’s tongue and down his throat, which the man swallowed eagerly as he lapped Steve clean and sat back on his heels, panting quietly.

 

Steve collapsed against the cot, slowing his frantic breathing before reaching down to tuck himself away from the cold air. Sweat cooled along his neck and forehead, and his eyes drew shut in a wave of afterglow relaxation. Bucky quickly pulled himself off the ground, crawling atop him in much the same position they’d started in and rolling out a slow grind of his hips.

 

“Put your knees back up,” he instructed Steve, who bonelessly did as he was told.

 

Bucky reached down and freed himself, his cock leaning up against his belly. Steve needed no command to reach forward and touch him, fingers wrapping around him lightly. Bucky hissed and pressed up into Steve’s hand as the captain ran a thumb over the head of his cock, spreading the pearlescent beads of precome around the head. He pulled his hand away for a moment, only to lick a wet stripe into his palm and return it to Bucky’s member, stroking up and down as he would his own cock, the tent slowly filling with the sound of wet skin on skin.

 

“Fuck that’s good, Stevie. Just keep…keep going. Move your hips again? Please?”

 

Steve thrust up against Bucky, his left hand holding the other man’s hip in a tight grasp, thumb nestled into the attractive V shape that led to his groin. He stroked in time with his thrusts, making sure to move smoothly so as not to throw Bucky off. He was in no danger of doing this, however, as Bucky leaned forward to lay hot, open-mouthed kisses and a few scattered bites to Steve’s chest and collar bones. He groaned into Steve’s ear, the sound alone enough to send Steve halfway hard again.

 

“Fuck, Stevie please…harder. Fuck! Don’t stop, don’t stop. Fuck, please—god—harder…”

 

By that time, Steve was thrusting up in jarring snaps, using the spring of the cot to aid his movement; the rustling was audible throughout the tent, but neither man cared. The fact that this grinding alone could send Bucky over the edge was so entrancingly arousing that Steve moaned along with him.

 

“Steve, fuck. Please. Please make me come. Make me for forget. Please, I can’t…I need it, fuck!”

 

With a surprised gasp and another stream of obscenities, Bucky came hard over Steve’s fist, painting their bellies white, and collapsed on top of the captain, body twitching spasmodically for a moment before settling. After a moment of calm, Steve reached out to the table and grabbed the first gauze pad he could snag and cleaned them up, tossing the bandage away. He slowly extricated himself from under Bucky, laying to the side. His fingers travelled over the other man’s chest, arms, and shoulders, once more searching for injuries that could have been overlooked, checking the bandages he’d tied around his forearm. His motions became almost panicky and Bucky had to stop him.

 

“Steve…Steve what are you doing?” he asked, holding onto one of the captain’s hands, lacing their fingers together.

 

“I’ve just…I’ve gotta be sure you’re okay. I’m not dreaming this. You’re here and…and I haven’t lost you. You’re here, you’re here?”

 

Bucky stopped the inspection altogether, raising himself up on his good elbow.

 

“Steve, stop. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. I’m with you to the end of the line, remember? Even…even if I am a total jackass for ten years at a time.”

 

Steve laid back, positioning Bucky atop his chest to pull him into a kiss. Without removing their boots, Steve pulled the thick, green blanket up over the two of them so that they might rest. Bucky yawned massively, and Steve did the same a moment later. The two lay quietly, listening to the noise of camp settle around them—clanking mess kits, the roll of truck tires, marching boots, the occasional clop of horse hooves. The carolers were still around the fire, it seemed, weaving together a hypnotic  melody.

 

_Silent night, holy night…_

 

“Buck,” Steve said at last, just as the two were nearly asleep, their breaths coming in time with one another.

 

_All is calm…_

 

“Yeah, Steve,” Bucky replied, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

 

“I…I love you, okay? And…and I’m not just saying it because of…of this. I think it’s just now hit me that I could really lose you at any time out here and…and I just need you to know that I love you in case something happens and I don’t get to say it later. And I’m not sayin’ you gotta marry me or…or be my guy or anything, just…I gotta say that I love you, and I always have and I always will.”

 

“I know, Steve,” Bucky said, settling his head on Steve’s broad, solid chest and wrapping one arm around his waist.

 

“You…you know?”

 

“Course I know. Kind of hard not to…to see it,” he said through a yawn. “I love you too, punk. For all the same reasons and more, but mostly because you’re still that little guy from Brooklyn that I started lovin’ the minute he wouldn’t back down from a fight.”

 

_All is bright…_

The two men clung to one another in the cold tent, the heat from the burner only spreading in a small circle that barely reached them. Outside, snow fell quietly over the camp, mixing with the mud and ash and gravel. Soldiers gathered around the common fire, only a small few noting the absence of their captain and his best mate, and sang their songs well into the night.

 

_Sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in heavenly peace…_

 

***

 

Steve closed his eyes tight, breath hitching for a moment. He’d shared that singular night with Bucky before the fall. Before he was gone. The captain broke from his reverie, however, to a low chattering sound and realized it was Amir’s teeth—he was rubbing his arms quickly to build up heat.

 

“You doing okay, bud?” Steve asked, voice full of concern. He was feeling the cold, but with a super soldier’s body burning hot, it wasn’t affecting him as strongly as it could have.  

 

“Yeah, man. I’m managing. Just keep an eye on that star—keep heading that way,” the man replied, doubling his efforts to wade through the wind and snow, which only seemed to grow worse as they approached their destination.

 

It wasn’t long, however, until Amir’s pace began to flag in the snow, and his breath came in heavy huffs and puffs while he worked through the thick white blanket. He grumbled lowly at times, but otherwise never said a word. It was after a longer patch of silence that Steve finally noticed the sizeable gap in the distance between the two. He drew up short and turned to face the man. This was no way to travel—at this rate, they could be hours to their destination, and Amir would likely suffer the worse for their journey. And for every hour they spent outside, Bucky may be out there as well. Steve pursed his lips, devising a quick plan.

 

“Amir, listen to me. You’re not going to make it much further without some help. Get on my back.”

 

The man caught up to Steve, looking almost affronted at the suggestion.

 

“No way, man. I might be slow, but I’ve marched before and I can do it again. Just let me catch my breath. I ain’t riding to anywhere on Captain America’s back.”

 

“Soldier, I’m not giving you a choice. You can hop up on your own, or I’m picking you up.”

 

Amir sighed, biting his chapped lower lip and eyeing the captain suspiciously. He cast his gaze about, first at the star, then at the snow surrounding them in the dark, and seemed to make up his mind.

 

“Okay. Alright, I’ll do it. But listen man, this goes nowhere, you hear? And you put me the hell down when I say.”

 

Steve nodded and turned his back to the man, crouching a little lower.

 

“I haven’t done this since I was a kid back in the desert,” Amir grumbled, and clumsily flopped onto Steve’s back, flinging his arms around his neck and hiking his thighs up on Steve’s hips to hold tight.

 

“Ready?” Steve asked, adjusting his grip under Amir’s knees.

 

“As ready a grown man on another man’s back like a little monkey can be,” Amir replied snarkily.

 

“And up!” Steve grunted, standing straight.

 

Amir hung heavy on his back, though was likely not as heavy as he could have been. Under Steve’s hands, he felt thinner and harder than he might have if he were eating regular meals. It reminded Steve of when he’d carried Bucky to the infirmary once from the trail, making their way back to camp from the field with a bad concussion. Bucky and mumbled and groaned into his shoulder until his head just lolled there, and Steve had sprinted to the head of the line and into camp, unable to keep his friend conscious. He grit his teeth at this memory, worry sprouting afresh in his heart, and he walked on.

 

For what it was worth, Amir didn’t squirm as much as Bucky had, just simply held on tight, the mittens that Hannah from the shelter had given him clasped tight just under Steve’s chin. They were quiet for the most part, and Steve’s mind wandered in an out of time.

 

“Amir, you still with me?” he asked, turning his head to the side.

 

“Hm? Yeah, I’m still here. Just…just tired. You’re real warm, Cap.”

 

Steve nodded and hefted the man a little higher on his hips.

 

“Okay. Just stay awake, though. I need you to keep a look out for where we’re going. We’re following your gut here.”

 

Amir nodded against Steve’s shoulder, Steve could feel his breath against his ear.

 

“Right, yeah. Just...keep going. I’m not sure where it is just yet, but I know we’re getting close. I can feel it.”

 

Steve shook his head, mistrust beginning to bubble low in his belly. What was this man guiding them toward? Where were they going? How many miles or hours had this adventure put him off of Bucky’s trail?

 

As his mind wandered to Bucky again, Amir interrupted his thoughts.

 

“You know, Cap, you’re a good guy. I mean, of course you are, you’re the Cap, but on a person to person level, you seem pretty good. He’s lucky to have you. Bet if he saw you helpin’ a guy out like this, he’d be pretty proud.”

 

Steve smiled but put the man’s compliments off.

 

“Just doing right by the people I protect,” he said. “Anyone would.”

 

Amir shook his head.

 

“I don’t think so man. Know how long I stood out on that corner? Hours. You were the first person to stop and see if I was okay out in this mess, and a lot of others walked on. Hard not to feel invisible when you’re so easy to pass by.”

 

“You aren’t invisible, Amir. Don’t ever think that. Once you start thinking that way, that’s when you really disappear. When you stop letting people see you, it’s a small step to not wanting people to see you. Then you’re gone and…and I can’t keep letting that happen to people.”

 

Amir had no answer for this, and so remained quiet.

 

“Not invisible,” Steve repeated, trudging forward. “Heavy though!”

 

“I’m dense, yeah. Not much further now though—don’t…don’t drop me, Steve.”

 

Steve shook his head.

 

“I won’t. Just hang on.”

 

Every few blocks on their journey, Steve would stop and give Amir a little shake to be sure he was awake. Even with their shared body heat, it was still cold, and Steve knew the man had to be freezing without working up his blood by walking, so sleep could be dangerous. When Steve would shake him, Amir would mumble quietly.

 

“Almost there, almost there, Cap. Just another block or two.”

 

Steve sighed. They couldn’t keep stopping like this—they were wasting time.

 

“Amir, listen. You gotta do something to let me know you’re still with me. I know it’s cold, I know. Just…just hum a song or something. Something constant so I know you’re still there. Pick a Christmas song like you did before.”

 

Amir’s voice cracked over Steve’s shoulder as he worked the frost out of it.

 

“You got it, Cap,” he said, and the warm words the carol flowed over Steve.

 

_O holy night, the stars are brightly shining…_

_It is the night of our dear savior’s birth…_

_Long lay the world in sin and error pining…_

 

After another few blocks, Amir only stopping his song to point at the star above them and beg Steve to have faith, Steve’s resolve to find the place that only Amir knew of was waning. It had to be almost midnight, and Bucky was still out there somewhere. Still stuck out in this same storm, the same cold, the same dark, just as he had been all those years. Steve could almost feel his heart break as he thought of Bucky’s face, contorted in fear after his first night terror in the captain’s bed, teeth chattering as he clung tight to Steve, swearing up and down that he was still frozen inside.

 

“Don’t give up, Steve. We’re…we’re almost there,” Amir said firmly, reassuring.

 

It was the first time that Amir had had any amount of strength in his voice since Steve had picked him up, and something about the way that he said it set the captain at ease and leant him strength, and he put his worries from his mind as much as he could. His shoulders unbunched, and Amir’s weight suddenly seemed like nothing. He even readjusted his grip to be sure that the man hadn’t hopped off him without him noticing in his muscle fatigue. His arms and quads shook with effort, but they didn’t seem to lose their power. The pair kept on moving into the night.

 

“Almost there…”

 

As the rounded a corner, Amir extending one mittened hand away from Steve, still clinging with the other.

 

“There,” he said.

 

Three blocks ahead of them, underneath the star that Amir had pinpointed earlier, stood an ancient church. Steve remembered it from his childhood, maybe even attended a Christmas mass there once or twice, but couldn’t remember the saint to which it was attributed.

 

“Saint Augustine,” Amir said quietly, as though he’d read Steve’s mind. “Don’t drop me, Cap. Okay? My…my feet went numb a while ago.”

 

“I won’t drop you, Amir. Just hang on. We’ll get you there.”

 

Steve hoisted the man higher, though he still felt as if he weighed nothing, and pressed onward toward the church. It was dark, the lights usually illuminating the stained glass windows were out with the power grid, but the snow on the steps was pounded down by a few sets of fresh prints from late night churchgoers arriving for the holiday.

 

_Till he appeared, and the soul felt its worth…_

“That’s good, man. Just keep up the song. Stay with me. We’re almost there.”

 

But as they approached the right block, Amir’s voice trailed off into silence.

 

“Amir? Hey—hey wake up. We’re here, just a few more minutes. Talk to me.” Steve tried to quicken his pace without jarring the man too severely.

 

“We…made it?” Amir asked quietly, still conscious. “I…I told you man, you just have to have some faith. I bet…I bet we find what we’re looking for here. Both of us. I’ve got a feeling.”

 

_A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices…_

_For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn…_

 

The cold ached in Steve now to the point where it almost felt like warmth, but the man’s weight was nothing. His steps slowed, however, when his mind processed what Amir had said. Could Bucky be here? Had the man riding on his back known all this time? His mind raced for a moment, heart picking up its beat in a moment of hope beyond hope. Suddenly, a thought that Steve’s subconscious had been ruminating upon without his knowledge surfaced in bright and anxious appeal.

 

“Amir…how did you know the woman at the shelter’s name was Hannah?”

 

There came no answer to his question as he approached the steps to the church, looking up at the massive building towering above him. He could see the gospel scenes depicted in the windows in night-darkened hues that would otherwise be radiant in the daylight. Now, snow lingered in the crenellations and on any ledge it could reach.

 

“Amir?” he tried again.

 

But when Steve turned his head, Amir was gone from his back, and his heart galloped hard and fast in his chest. Had he dropped him? Had the man hopped off at the corner? The captain ran back to the curb, looking all around, calling out into the dark night.

 

“Amir? Amir?!” but there was nothing, just a gust of wind that brought the clean, familiar scent of pine boughs.

 

This was impossible, there had to be some logic here. Steve retraced his steps to the spot under the stairs. The only prints in the snow, however, were his own. A single set.

 

Steve paced for a moment, his shaking arms and legs now free of their burden. Maybe Amir had slid off at a hard gust of wind and snuck up the steps and into the church. He’d search there, but if this had all been some cold-induced hallucination, Steve thought that it might now be time for him to begin worrying about his own safety.

 

He carefully picked his way up the icy steps, placing a hand on the heavy wooden door. As his fingers touched the surface, however, almost frighteningly suddenly, the snow and wind that had plagued him and his companion for hours ceased. Steve scrubbed at eyes watering with cold, looking up into the sky. The star still twinkled brightly above the building, and he shook his head. Yes. Hallucination. He pushed on the doors, letting himself into the church.

 

_O fall on your knees…_

_O hear the angel voices…_

Steve was immediately awash with warmth, close and steady despite the height of the stone ceilings and sheer size of the space, and the voices of a magnificent congregation and choir filled his ears. With the power still out, every hand held a candle, lighting the place in a deep orange light, the wax dripping onto little paper plates. The incense, swung on a chain by the priest and altar server  traveling up and down the aisles before they reached the altar, wafted to his nose in a peaceful drift so familiar it brought tears to his eyes. Steve knew that even if he didn’t see Amir again or find Bucky here that this was the place he was meant to end up on this frigid Christmas Eve.

 

_O night divine…_

_O night when Christ was born…_

He walked down the northern aisle and into the candle-lit nave, where rows and rows of pews stood empty. He wasn’t surprised—the horrific weather should have been enough to deter anyone, even the most pious of attendees. He took advantage of the sparse turnout and headed toward the back of the congregation, genuflecting carefully at the edge of the row before taking a seat on the aisle. Rather than scanning the crowd, however, Steve sat in silent contemplation, trying to rein in his scrambled wits.

 

What had happened out here tonight? The storm, the memories he thought he’d buried, Amir, and now this place? He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and stared at the floor as the puddles of snowmelt spread from underneath his SHIELD-issue boots.

 

_Oh night divine…_

 

“Steve?” came a quiet voice from behind him.

 

As the familiar sound hit his ears, everything around him fell away. Was it him? Was he here? Steve’s eyes travelled up the man’s form from the floor. He stood in the aisle, illuminated by the flickering light of the candles held by the congregation and those placed high in candelabra, thick black boots encasing his legs halfway up his calves, dark jeans tucked into the tops. A worn leather jacket was open, revealing several layers of protective clothing, and gloves covered his hands. A knit cap had been pulled down over the top of his head and ears, a pack slung over one shoulder, and his face…his face—the scrub of new beard growth, the small cleft in his chin, the scar on his cheek, and those blue, blue eyes.

 

“Bucky?” he choked out, meeting the gaze he’d been desperately hoping to see.

 

“I…I told you not to follow me…” Bucky spoke lowly, keeping his voice below the sounds of the Christmas Eve service.

 

“I couldn’t let you go. I can’t. Not again, Buck. I…I can’t lose you to this.”

 

But Bucky shook his head, flesh arm at his side, the prosthetic holding his pack on his shoulder.

 

“Steve, not here.”

 

“Yes here!” Steve interjected in a hiss. “No one is listening but you and God, and he’d better damn well be listening because I think I carried him here from four miles away on my back and he deserves to know that he was right, that I had faith, that he led me here, and that I found you, and that I’m going to tell you again what I told you earlier, even though he told me you already know. I love you, James Buchanan Barnes.”

 

Bucky could do nothing but stand and shake his head, uneasily eyeing the nearest churchgoers. Steve was right, they were paying them no attention.

 

“Steve—Steve you don’t understand. I’m…I’m not worth it. I’m not him! I’m not that person! I know you think I’m that guy you grew up with—the guy that took care of you and fought next to you in the field and let you wipe the brains out of his hair and that fucking guy that cried to you and held you close but Steve, listen to me, I can’t be him anymore. I can’t be brave and honorable and noble like you. I don’t know who he is. I can’t see Mom’s face, or remember Becca’s laugh, or hear Sarah sing to the Christmas tree. On bad days I can’t hear…anything. Just this damn arm and my heart and I can’t even understand why this stupid thing has kept on beating all of these years when I’ve done everything in my power to make it stop.”

 

“Buck…”

 

“No, Steve. You have to hear me. I’m not worth what you have to give. You’re good, and you’re pure, and I’m not. You do so much for the world, and I’ve killed more people than I’ve known in my life. I piss the bed like a fucking child. I scream at night because I’m drowning in their faces, in their blood! I can’t even go to the market without losing my mind because I don’t know where the next shot is going to come from or where to focus on the next target. No one trusts me to keep it together on a mission, no one wants me as their partner, and they shouldn’t! I don’t want to be anyone’s partner! You’re asking me to be him—to be whole—when I just can’t. When I’m not…”

 

“Bucky, I don’t want you to be anyone you aren’t. I know we can’t have what…whatever we had was in ’43. I just want you as you are now. In whatever shape you come in, with all of the screaming and the terror and the hurt. Because I have it too. My head is sunk in guilt and garbage and blood and memory, and in some moments I envy you that blankness. I know that who you were isn’t going to come waltzing into your head one day after enough therapy, after enough meditating, or after enough drugs. And Bucky…Bucky I still want that. I want to go through it with you. And…and I can’t do all of this without you. I can’t be this thing that the country turned me into without someone to remind me of who I really am—that skinny kid from Brooklyn.”

 

“Steve, please. You can’t want me. Even I don’t want me.”

 

“I do, Buck. I love you, and I want you, and I can’t do anything else but that. It’s the only thing I’ve never stopped doing. In this century, the one before, and the next one if we make it there too. I loved you in Brooklyn, and England, and Germany, and in the ice, and in my fevers,  through HYDRA and the Potomac, and in Budapest, and Vienna, and through everything that has happened since, and nothing is going to change that, do you hear me? This is not the end of the line, and whether you remember or not, we made that promise together. To the end of the fucking line. And that line is—not—here this night.”

 

Steve punctuated his last few words with a stab of his finger at the floor of the church.

 

“But…but maybe it’ll come. Maybe tomorrow, or the next day…” Bucky stammered, his lower lip quivering, the pack sliding down off his shoulder.

 

“Then dammit Buck, we will meet it on that day. But not tonight, and not for as long as I can help you. Not for as long as I am able to love you. Which, thankfully or not, will be a very, very long time.”

 

“I…I don’t know if I can be what you want.”

 

“Buck, you are already what I want. You, as you are, are enough.”

 

At these words, Bucky crashed onto his knees—threw himself into the captain’s arms and held him tight around the waist, just as they had all those years ago. Frustrated tears finally broke and rolled down Steve’s cheeks and he buried his face into Bucky’s neck and hair, clinging to him and breathing deeply the scent of the man he was terrified would pull away.

 

“Please, Buck. You’ve been working for all these months. You’ve been trying so hard. But Buck, please god, please, don’t go. Don’t leave me here alone. Please. I can’t do this without you.”

 

Bucky shook his head. He didn’t care that his knees were soaking in the melted water from Steve’s boots, he didn’t care that his nose was running fiercely from the cold and his tears. It was finished. He was done for. After the last week without sleep, without a single night uninterrupted by screaming and retching in fear, without a single hour untinged by panic and paranoia, he’d left hoping to spare this man the inevitable hurt his companionship would cause. He’d lost faith and given up—had resolved to let death take him in any way it could possibly find him. But part of him had desperately wanted to stay, wanted to sink in the safety he’d been denied for so many decades, and he needed Steve in the way that Steve seemed to need him. And here he was…it wasn’t the end of the line after all.

 

“How…how did you find me? I did...I did everything I could to cover my trail.”

 

“I…Buck, I can’t make this up but…I followed a star here.”

 

And Bucky choked a desperate, broken laugh into Steve’s lips as they crumpled together, warm incense rather than frigid snow swirling around them, orange glow of the myriad candle sticks glinting on gold and glass, voices echoing about the nave.

 

_O night, o night divine…_

_O night, o holy night…_

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a professional editor, but sometimes I miss things. Leave a comment if you enjoyed the piece or if there's something I can do to improve.
> 
> Joyous Jul, all!


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